I let out a long sigh and closed my eyes for a moment.
Medical supplies were the problem I had to deal with now.
The weapons issue was solved. Food was solved, ish. Water was solved, ish.
But medicine?
That was still a gap, and it was a gap that could kill me just as easily as starvation or violence.
In my past life, infections had taken out more people than the cold ever did. A simple cut could turn septic. A fever could spiral into pneumonia. Antibiotics became worth more than gold, and by the time people realized that, the pharmacies had been picked clean and the hospitals were death traps.
I wasn't going to make that mistake again.
I needed antibiotics—broad-spectrum, high-dose, enough to last years. I needed surgical kits, sutures, scalpels, clamps. I needed IV supplies, saline bags, needles, tubing. I needed painkillers, anti-inflammatories, antivirals. I needed everything a field hospital would stock, and I needed it in bulk.
The problem was sourcing.
Pharmacies were too small. They didn't carry enough volume, and their security systems were tied directly to local police networks. Breaking into one would trigger an immediate response, and even if I got in and out clean, the theft would be noticed. Prescriptions were tracked. Inventory was monitored. It wasn't worth the risk.
Hospitals were the better option. They had everything I needed, and they had it in massive quantities. But hospitals also had security, cameras, staff working around the clock. Breaking into one directly would be complicated. Possible, but complicated.
Unless I didn't have to break in.
Unless I walked in through the front door.
I stood at the top of the main staircase, staring down at the steps below. The marble gleamed under the afternoon light, polished and pristine. Fifteen steps. Maybe sixteen. Steep enough to do damage, but not steep enough to kill me.
If I broke my leg, I'd go to the hospital.
Hospital meant medical equipment. Hospital meant access to supply rooms, medication carts, storage closets. I didn't even have to be in the room to take what I wanted in my space. I just had to be close enough to it to wish it.
I calculated the logistics before I committed to my next course of action.
A broken leg would mean surgery, maybe. Pins, plates, screws. Recovery time would be six to eight weeks for a clean break, longer if it was compound. But I would be on crutches with limited mobility, dependent on others for basic tasks.
That was a problem.
I couldn't afford to be immobile for two months. I couldn't afford to be vulnerable.
But a concussion?
A concussion was different. A concussion meant observation, scans, maybe an overnight stay. Recovery was faster—days, not months. I could fake symptoms if I needed to extend the stay. Dizziness, nausea, confusion. Easy to mimic. Hard to disprove.
I stared at the stairs, working through the angles. If I fell forward, I'd hit my head on the landing.
If I fell backward, I'd hit the steps. Forward was riskier—higher chance of severe injury—but backward was controllable. I could tuck, roll, let momentum carry me down without breaking anything critical.
The pain would be a bitch, not to mention the bruising. Hell, maybe I would get a cracked rib if I landed wrong. But pain was temporary. Pain was manageable.
Happy with the plan, I took a step closer to the edge.
The house was quiet. Xu Zhenlan was in his office, probably still dealing with whatever that gun situation had been about. The staff were elsewhere. No one would see. No one would stop me.
I looked down at the marble steps again, calculating the fall, the impact, the exact way I'd need to position my body to make it look accidental while ensuring I walked away with exactly the injury I needed.
It was a good plan.
"What the fuck are you thinking?"
The voice came from behind me, sharp and furious, and before I could turn around, an arm wrapped around my waist and yanked me backward.
I stumbled, my balance gone, and suddenly I was several feet away from the stairs with Zhou Chenghai's grip tight around my waist.
I blinked at him.
He was staring at me like I'd just tried to set the house on fire.
His jaw was tight, his eyes hard, and his hand was still locked around my waist like he thought I might bolt back toward the stairs the second he let go.
He'd been watching me.
I hadn't heard him approach, hadn't noticed him in the hallway. He must have seen me standing there, staring down at the steps with whatever expression had been on my face, and decided I was about to do something stupid.
Which, to be fair, I was. Just not for the reasons he thought.
Zhou Chenghai's grip loosened slightly, but he didn't let go. He was still staring at me, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and fury. His gaze flicked to the stairs, then back to me, and I could see the exact moment he put it together in his head.
The quiet behavior. The lack of complaints. The way I'd been keeping to myself lately, not causing problems, not demanding attention.
He thought I'd been pouting. Sulking. Playing the role of the neglected ward who wasn't getting enough of Zhenlan's time.
And now this.
He must be thinking that I was trying to hurt myself to get Zhenlan's attention.
I almost laughed. Almost.
But the frustration was sharper than the humor. My plan was ruined now. He'd be watching. He'd tell Xu Zhenlan. I would have to come up with something else.
"There are easier ways to get your Uncle's attention than trying to kill yourself," Zhou Chenghai said, his voice low and hard as he proved that I knew him well enough to know what he was thinking.
I looked at him, then at the stairs, then back at him. "When did I ever say I wanted to kill myself?"
His expression didn't change. If anything, he looked angrier. "You were standing at the top of the stairs, staring down like you were about to jump."
"I was just thinking," I replied, my tone flat. I liked life way too much to willingly give it up.
"Thinking." He repeated the word like it tasted bad. Like he didn't believe me for a second.
I didn't respond.
There wasn't a point.
He had already decided what he thought was happening, and nothing I said would change his mind. He saw what he wanted to see—a girl making bad decisions, acting out, doing something reckless for attention. He didn't see the logic. He didn't see the necessity.
He finally let go of my waist and took a step back, his hands dropping to his sides. But he didn't move away. He was still watching me, his expression unreadable, like he was trying to figure out whether to yell at me or just lock me in my room.
I looked at the staircase one more time. The plan was good. It would have worked. But now it was compromised, and I'd have to start over.
The frustration settled in my chest, cold and sharp. I'd been so close.
Zhou Chenghai was still staring at me, his jaw tight, his eyes dark.
"I was thinking," I said again, letting out a long sigh.
He didn't look away. His voice was quiet when he finally spoke, but there was an edge to it that hadn't been there before.
"That's exactly what worries me."